


All You Are Is Brand New

by trepidatingboarfetus



Category: Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Anal Sex, Catholic Guilt, Dysfunctional Relationships, Gay Sex, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rough Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27753949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trepidatingboarfetus/pseuds/trepidatingboarfetus
Summary: Come to me, let me hold you stillI'm so tired, just as tired as youTake me for anyone but meAll that you feel is never trueI want you and I need youAll you are is brand newAnd I need youWhen you say that you areForever, my starCould never ever let you goAnd never let you knowMichael has a tendency to treat those around him like toys, manipulating them to do whatever he wants to get his way, and then he casts them aside when he grows tired of them. But one day, he meets something brand new that makes it harder for him to just repeat the same old habits.
Relationships: Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	All You Are Is Brand New

**Author's Note:**

> OK, this got started after a line I wrote in New Ways for marina-rasteniye on Tumblr (the one where Michael calls Trevor his precious toy), and we got to talking about this idea. Then other conversations were had about Michael and how he manipulates people -- which isn't to say you must now hate him with every fiber of your being -- but it means that he's human and does terrible shit to the people he loves. We know this. Hell, he says it multiple times in the game. That isn't to say he's a completely irredeemable person. No one is. Hell, I suppose I'm proof of that because somehow I'm still here. 
> 
> What it does mean is that not only will I adjust the relationships when I upload again (I plan this to be in three parts; basically splitting up eras or otherwise this will easily be a 80+ page one-shot), but this is going to be explicit as hell. Not just for sex, but it's dark. It's really a battling of one's demons. Sort of like Toxicity but on the other flip of the coin. 
> 
> This references Sea Water and Summertimes which is already on here and from The Lost Boys Fanzine.
> 
> Also Larry is the defunct(?) stepbrother who was supposed to be mentioned in The Sharmoota Job. 
> 
> The title and some of the lyrics used herein come from an old Smashing Pumpkins song called Set The Ray To Jerry.

_Born to please every simple need_  
_I stand alone in my thoughts indeed_  
_Hate you for ever making me_  
_I'm in you, I'm your anything_  
_I want you and I need you_  
_All you are is brand new_

His eyes have always followed the shining glint that brand new metal casts on bright summer days when the sun hits just right, where he can look through the beams and see into forever. As a boy, he loved the gleam the aluminum bats made as he twisted them in his hands, and he loved the loud clank the balls made when he’d strike them. The reverberation that could be heard and felt filled him with so much joy, took away from the pain of his dad cracking him in the head and instead put him in a place where he could see himself being the one to deliver it to his dad no matter how wrong it felt.

Deep down, it felt good in a special place. 

Baseball ended though and was replaced with a new love that was closer to something his new stepfather wanted: football. And he excelled at that just as he had with Little League because it hadn’t taken him long to be commended by everyone in his small town for his uncanny aim. Pitcher, quarterback...it was all the same to him. It did come with its own rush, and he had to think quickly on his feet, so it gave him a new set of skills he’d never had to put to use, but he often found his temper imploding much like the balls exploding off those bats. He wasn’t a linebacker. He couldn’t expend his anger, his energy. Instead, everyone was supposed to protect _him_ , and that felt odd at a time when he was usually accustomed to looking out for himself, so he ended up in fights often; his coach, his teammates, the visiting team...hell, even the crowd wasn’t safe from him when he threw down the ol’ patented _Townley charm_ for which his dad’s entire male line was known in town.

The school did everything they could to keep his temper under wraps and keep him out of trouble because of his skillset. They knew he could go places, helped him make Junior All-State...but it had been at the cost of an injury -- a torn ACL and blown knee which would take time to recover. 

He knew he could’ve come back, trained harder if he really wanted to make Senior All-State and Mr. Football, go to a good college...God knew he’d had scouts looking at him since freshman year. But he just couldn’t find it in himself to care. Everyone screamed at him, all the way down to his coach who gave up and tossed him off the team.

But they just couldn’t understand the new Mikey. The one who could no longer find excitement in the noisy chatter, the loud sounds, and the vibrant colors behind the explosive violence that had been football for him. It had just been another exhilarating toy, now cast aside with disuse because it was no longer entertaining. 

A part of him also found playing with sparklers, firecrackers, and other nastier means of fireworks fascinating. Just another explosion, with sounds and colors and feelings rushing at him. As a boy, he’d loved to dance with the sparklers, and who didn’t love to fire off a few bottle rockets and roman candles? Then he and the spare amount of guys he considered friends on the team would fuck around with firecrackers, leaving them in various places, watching them blow shit up for a laugh. No harm, no foul. Just normal shit. 

And then one day a friend marched in with a cherry bomb he had procured from his dad’s collection of militia paraphernalia at some point without his old man’s knowledge, and they oohed and ahhed over it as teen boys do, wanting to wet themselves from the anticipation of _what the fuck do you do with this thing_ and also _how the fuck do you not get in trouble_ because no one was that dumb. The damn things were banned, obviously. 

Yet something nudged at the back of his head, a desire to want to see what this baby could do, and yet the good Catholic in him kept slowly shaking its head. It was dangerous, he could get hurt. 

Then he looked into the restless eyes of his friend who’d brought the device, noticing something there, something he could turn and manipulate like winding up one of his old metal toy cars, and he latched onto it. Casually mentioned to Billy that they could stuff it down the toilet and flush. Basically, they would be doing a _throwing on the run_ , of sorts. Billy’s dull eyes lit up momentarily at that thought but then grew dim again at the thought of getting busted. 

So thinking fast because he didn’t want this opportunity to fall through his fingers, he ordered one of the more trusting faces -- Pat Scoggins? maybe? ah hell, it was hard to tell in the heat of the moment who he was barking commands at -- to keep guard outside of the boys’ bathroom on the far south end of school where hardly anyone went this time of day while they struck a match and ran. 

They hauled ass to the shop room and pretended to be working on projects, the others sweating nervously awaiting the yelling and possible suspicion it would bring, but he sat there drumming his fingers out of boredom while the need to hear the impending chaos loomed within him. 

It’s the closest thing to feeling alive. 

It’s been years since those days. He’s left behind the deadbeat dad, drunken stepfather, neglectful mom, but the anger and hurt still reside. He rethinks his skillset thanks to his good-for-nothing stepbrother, Larry, who actually turns out to be good for something, after all, even if it winds him up in the joint a few times, but he guesses this is all just a part of the learning process, and even in the joint, there are toys to play with when he gets bored, so much fun to be had so there’s never really any boredom. 

He turns his eyes to bigger and better jobs to keep himself amused -- although he also thinks a part of him has a deathwish -- but he also learns from Larry that in this world, it pays to make connections, so he works his way through that, learns to control his temper and use his manipulative charm to his advantage. Playing with people is just like playing with his cousins’ fucking honest-to-god Barbies and GI Joes with how easily they are malleable. A smile here, a suggestion there, and they think they’ve come up with whatever the fuck he’s put in their ear. 

Which is how he winds up with the cargo and car he just stole off some fat old bastard who was supposed to deliver it. 

The thrill of the chase is enough to get the blood pumping in his veins even if the altar-boy side of him is hanging on for dear life and chastising him for even being so stupid as to pull a stunt such as this, but _fuck_ , he wanted this job, needs the quick cash it’ll bring, and he knows it’s a piece of cake except for the damning part where he hadn’t counted on this fat fucker being someone’s friend which pulled rank. 

And now the tenacious prick wants him dead, obviously, because he hasn’t stopped trying to run him off the narrow road or shoot at him. The bastard _has_ to run out of bullets soon, he figures--

There in the cloud of dust, he can barely make out a small building, the kind that appears to house small planes, and the nearer he gets, the more he breathes a sigh of relief because outside is the one that’s meant for this damn job, so all he has to do is buy enough time and pray that they won’t see through his shit or actually know the guy who’s supposed to be making the dropoff. 

The Ford Laser comes to a screeching halt, and the smell of burning rubber assaults his nostrils, but it just adds to the ambiance, he tells himself. The whole thing is just becoming unreal and not unlike a movie he’d love to see up on the big screen someday. 

There’s no time for that though as he jerks the latch for all its worth and runs toward the lanky figure he sees leaning against the plane -- and _oh Jesus, help him, the fucking pilot can’t be any older than him??_

Time to switch gears, he’s on the field again, and there’s a way to work this to his advantage. 

By now, he can hear the old fatass stumble-running as quickly as his feet can carry him, screaming at the pilot about something, but he’s huffing and puffing so severely from being out of shape that no one can really make out what he’s saying besides realizing that everything is coming out in huge gulping yells, so Mike’s mind swiftly works to concoct a story out of his ass and prays that the pilot doesn’t know the actual jobber for this mission, and by the wild fiery stare in the pilot’s eyes, Mike can guess that he doesn’t really _care_ , so when an arm swings up and aims at the balding guy’s face, this has become something _brand new_. 

He doesn’t even have to wind this toy up. It just works straight out of the box as if it understands what he wants it to do, and when the flare explodes wondrously in that fat guy’s face, Mike feels his stomach lurch. Not just with breakfast’s contents because, _Jesus_ , he is going to be doing penance for a month after that, but no, with something else he can’t quite describe. It’s similar to the love he’d felt for baseball back when he’d been allowed to play, that feeling of being able to hit something without actually hurting anything at all, and no one would hate him for it. 

“How many times have you killed?” he asks between mouthfuls of vomit and acidic regret. 

Amber eyes shine on him, and he feels like he can see flames flickering beneath them if he just peers close enough; he’s reminded of fireworks. Something in his chest dances. 

“Oh, that,” the kid who can’t be any older than him laughs simply as if he’d merely taken out the trash and not a human being, “I’ve never killed anyone before.” He claps Mike on the back and then thrusts his fists into the air. “What a rush, eh?” he yells proudly and howls at the sky. 

There’s something intoxicating in that action, but Mike can’t let himself get lost in it. There’s a job to do, dammit, and he doesn’t ever let himself get played because he’s the one who does that, but he _does_ allow himself an easy smile. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“You?” Mike is asked as he’s loading the shipment into the R114 and securing it. 

“Huh?” He’s so taken aback by still being chatted to because usually, these jobs are quick-in, quick-out, and none of the older guys he’s had to deal with are that vocal. In fact, they all remind him of his dad: towering, gloomy, alcoholic, and cantankerous just because. He can’t even recall running into anyone near his age without counting his stepbrother, and that’s still not quite in the same age range. 

“I mean I’m sure you’ve already killed lots of fuckers in your line of work,” this guy is practically gushing and hanging over him, and it makes him nervous as hell, wishing he could just get paid already and go. “So what are we going to do about...ya know. Can’t leave this here. Locals will get pretty suspicious.”

It dawns on Mike that he means the dead body, and _holy shit_ is he beginning to really rue this whole fucking thing already. This is usually pretty damn easy-going, but this guy has him so off his game, he can’t get a handle on things and _just think_ for a second on what to do with a goddamn dead body that he’s never had to deal with before because it’s so hard to clear his fucking mind for some reason he can’t put his finger on _what the fuck is it??_

But suddenly, there in this new kind of chaos, he’s back out on the gridiron, tensing his shoulders, steeling his emotions because he has to think -- _dammit think!_ \-- of a way to fix this, a new plan, as it all rests on him, and as he looks at the utility plane, an idea formulates in his head.

“Any water between here and the dropoff point?”

The new toy springs to life without a second thought, and Mike breathes a sigh of relief before offering to help with a grin -- a real one that does not go unnoticed. 

* * *

Over time, he’s learned that this new toy doesn’t take much effort to work like others do, and sometimes he even feels terrible for the things he does. They form an easy partnership because Mike always works better with a team -- and telling someone what to do, but he doesn’t want to admit that out loud -- coupled with that two can get more accomplished than just one, he reasons. Or he tells himself that. It’s not at all because Trevor begs to go with him because he has nothing better to do. It has nothing to do with his sunny eyes _or_ how he’s made life interesting _or_ how he’s made Mike feel something other than just numb all of the time.

No, not at all. 

One day though, his toy puts a thought in _his_ head, tells him of a place he knows that they can knock over for a good sum of quick cash, and it should be easy-peasy. Says he wants to “stick it to the man one last time before he leaves the area for good.”

That should be Mike’s wake-up call, he knows. Not only does he let himself be lured in by thoughts of fast cash and pretty doe eyes, but everything goes wrong when Trevor doesn’t realize that the bank manager is apparently some asshole who knows him from their school days and makes him, just like that. 

Mike can feel it all falling apart, sifting through his fingers, and he’s fully at a loss for the first time. Getting himself in trouble is one thing, but now he’s taken on someone else who he feels responsible for…

...and deep down doesn’t want to think that he doesn’t know how to get by without Trevor by his side. Trevor has become the sunshine that keeps the clouds away. He’s made this shit worth waking up and doing. 

He doesn’t even have time to think of what to do. His toy winds up and bellows at him, “Get out of here, M! I’ll...I’ll come find you somehow when it’s all over, just go so I can draw the heat off!”

With his bag, he lies in hiding behind a group of dumpsters a few buildings down in an alley. He knows this is dangerous as fuck, but he can’t help himself...he still has hope even though he knows how this will end. 

And it does. With Trevor kicking and screaming into the back of a squad car. 

He makes out with enough money just from holding up the tellers that by budgeting he can get by for a long time, and it’s not like he doesn’t know how to live poor, by all means. The days are spent tracking down info on Trevor’s case which he attends -- about as inconspicuously as he can of course because all he needs is T spotting him and opening his mouth without thinking -- and tries not to cringe at the verdict because all things considered, it’s a decent one: six months with some time allotted for what’s already been served, and it’s two-do-one for good behavior. If Trevor can keep from being, well, _Trevor_ , he can be out in a short amount of time. 

Mike can _do_ this. 

A thought pops into his head, not exactly a random one, and he wonders _why_ he’s thinking he can do this, why he cares so much about one guy when anyone else he would have dumped on the roadside long ago after he got tired of them.

He can’t answer that. No, he _can_ answer that, but he’s afraid to go there. If he doesn’t think about it, it’ll just go away. 

But the longer he goes without this toy that’s become so beloved to him, the more the sadness builds up within him again along with the numbness. There’s no longer any care to do anything. He doesn’t even bother to eat some days, tells himself instead that it saves money so he can deny the truth a bit longer. 

At night, he dreams of the missing piece in his equation and pulls the extra pillows near.

The calendar he hangs on the wall has been counting down each fucking day. He hasn’t once dared to make contact, but somehow he just knows that Trevor will understand that he’ll be there. Or maybe it’s just hope. What if T hates him now? What if he’s moved on? 

And for a minute, he feels very much like the kid who’d looked numbly on as his dad left until collapsing under his covers later that night when it was safer to let out his emotions. But then a hot intense fire builds in his belly and rages out of control as his thoughts race. 

No, _no one_ moves on from Michael Townley. No one. Not happening. He won’t allow it, even if he has to make T understand that.

The big day arrives though, and he never needs to worry because a lost and lonely looking Trevor shambles around aimlessly like he’s broken and in need of fixing until he sees Mike and his car, and he breaks into a run that ends in a hug. 

Mike’s never felt so wanted by anyone the way that he does when Trevor’s around, and if this is what actual love is, he’s never known it before. It tries to bother him, bring him down, but there’s T with his sunny face in his, going on and on about how he’d thought he'd been abandoned again because that’s always happening, and while he tries to laugh it off like it’s nothing, something about that information doesn’t settle right in Mike’s stomach, so he hugs his young friend -- _because that’s what they are now, right?_ \-- and buries his face in the crook of T’s neck. “I’m never going to abandon you, not after this.”

It’s an awkward moment with Trevor blushing and looking very delectable while doing so to Mike’s eyes, but then amber eyes slowly widen and shine radiantly like two molten gold coins as the morning light hits them just right, and T clasps his hands together loudly and shouts boisterously, “After months of eating shit, I’m starving! Let’s get some breakfast, Mikey!”

For the first time in a while, Mike actually feels famished and grins lopsidedly at T because people rarely call him Mikey these days except for his friend, and it’s always with such a huge amount of production and affection when he does it like he’s announcing the arrival of someone important. God, he’s missed this. 

How did he ever survive without him?

“Yeah, let’s do that,” he agrees and steps aside to open the passenger door. 

* * *

Over the upcoming months, he spends time finetuning his precious toy, learning not only what makes Trevor tick but also discovering his own wayward feelings that only grow stronger as time goes on. Again, it’s like they’ve never been disconnected, with T just automatically knowing what Mike wants before he even knows himself, and that’s worrisome, fucking wicked awesome, and downright scary all at the same time. 

They stick to robbing small places because that seems the easiest for them to manage, and he likes the madness T creates even if he chooses to remain Mr. Cool-And-Collected. It’s their version of good cop, bad cop. It works. Send in his pretty toy to unleash chaos and then reason with whomever so they can make a quick getaway. 

It really just works. 

In the midst of their running all across the countryside, they’re getting to know each other in other ways. Shared stories about abusive childhoods and tons of neglect bring them even closer together, although he’s pretty sure Trevor’s had a bit more shit thrown at him in his lifetime -- but he also wonders how much of it T brings on himself with his mouth and actions. 

And he’s not the only one. 

Through weeks of mutual jerking off side by side, beautiful French words whispered in throes of passion, feverish handjobs where they pretend everything’s _not_ weird -- even though it already ventured there the first time they jerked off together, and Trevor casually mentioned that he just _happens_ to like guys too -- there comes a night where T has a particularly bad dream where he’s whimpering so much, the motel room sounds like they’re keeping a dog indoors, for fuck’s sake, and when the person in the room next to theirs begins to bang on the wall a bit, that’s the final straw so he nudges T awake. 

What gazes back at him looks so unlike the toy he’s used to. This forlorn haunted little boy look is one he’s seen on himself in the mirror, and he doesn’t know how to react to that. 

Trevor begins a barrage of apologies that turn into self-hatred commentary, and before either of them are ready for it, he’s crying into Mike’s chest about how he’s never done right by any of his family, biological or foster, he’s always been a complete fuck-up, he doesn’t understand why anyone puts up with him or his mouth…

...and the only way Mike can think to fix him is to breathe life back into him as Trevor’s done unto him. 

Kissing is something new, and it comes with its own set of things to catalog and remember for further use; such as the almost-but-not-quite feminine mewling sounds he makes when his tongue is caressed a certain way which are very much unlike the burly groaning and deeprooted growling when he’s getting a quick handy but mysteriously similar to the ones he makes when he’s cumming, the way his hands are all over Mike all at once but also nowhere at all working to stimulate here and stroke lovingly there, and the tempestuous way he always seems to need _more more more_ as if he can never get enough of his Mikey. There are even smells such as the bittersweet residue of beer leftover on his lips and a fine sheen of salty sweat all over his body. 

It’s quite the sensory overload, but it’s the intensity that Mike has found himself craving for years, and he has never dreamed it would be found in this borderline psychotic underweight Canadian. 

“I...I think I’m falling in love with you, Mikey.” 

The words fill his ears and then his heart, and he tries to keep from getting antsy, but no one has ever dared to love him. Sure, girls and whores fuck him, guys at school had envied him, past and present colleagues have respected him, and his family pretends to care in their own warped way, but no one has ever tried to honestly love him. He isn’t even sure he is worthy of such a thing, not even from God. 

And here he is, too, letting himself get played. He isn’t supposed to catch feelings like some hopeless girl, dammit. 

“Yeah, OK,” is all he can muster and then hates himself when he notes the fading look of disappointment on Trevor’s face before he stretches and pretends to go back to sleep. 

He tells himself it is better this way. T is just something else in the grand scheme of things that can be used for work, fun, or relief, and even if they finally made friend status, it was never meant to go _that_ direction. He assures himself that T is still more flexible than anyone else, so he can keep this going for a long time, and the thought of that calms him down. 

And if he can’t, he can always amuse himself with another toy, right?

* * *

Larry calls him about a score in Carcer City, and there really isn’t even a question of whether or not he wants in, just a statement of when he can be expected to come on the job. 

Of course, it only requires him, so that leaves a question of what to do with Trevor. 

He almost wants to argue with his stepbrother, wants to make a case for bringing T along just to have the familiarity of having him there but knows it’s futile because there’s the argument that Trevor hasn’t been vetted, and he can also be a loose cannon which is something Larry doesn’t like at all, so Mike decides against it in the end. 

He hasn’t even said anything while he’s packing, but he can feel eyes on him, waiting to say something but hesitant on when’s the moment to start, so with a sigh, he decides to place his cards on the table. Fuck it, moment of truth for them. 

“My stepbrother wants me to come along on a job so I’m going to be gone for a bit, but there’s enough cash here to keep you going for a minute as long as you don’t fucking splurge,” he warns, hoping T won’t decide to have himself a coke party or some shit and not really understanding quite why he cares so much once again because it’s not like his friend isn’t resourceful. Why the fuck is he treating him like some broad?

But said person’s slender legs slide along the sheets with a catlike lazy gracefulness, his lips are twisted in a small pout, and that accompanied with his longish hair really does make him look like _some broad_. “Is there some reason I can’t tag along?” he whines with the vigor of a petulant child. “It’s not like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Mike tries not to laugh, but the smallest of snickers get out before he can contain them, causing T to look at him like a sulky puppy, and by then, he’s lost it and outright laughing at his friend’s upset face. 

"You’re a goddamn asshole sometimes, Mike.”

That stops him in his tracks. There’s no worse feeling on this planet than a Trevor who holds contempt for him for any reason, and he knows it in the way the nicknames are switched, so he sighs and puts on one of his best smiles as he looks down and prepares to coddle the man-child on the bed, but somehow his friend can always see through him so he turns his smile into a thin grimace instead. “I swear if this were planned by me, you’d be there, but my bro is just particular about who he works with, you know?”

It’s enough to pacify T for now who is reduced to rolling himself in the blankets like the miserable child he sometimes still is, mumbling, “When are we going to go for something bigger? We need our _own_ score.”

“I’m thinking about that, but it’s going to take some time, for fuck’s sake. I don’t have the means to have guys on the inside like my bro gets.” He finishes packing the duffel bag and zips it. Forgive him Lord but _goddamn_ , he can’t wait to get away for a while. He fucking hates whiny anything. Dealing with his own melancholy and nervousness is bad enough, but add someone else’s shit on top? It’s like football all over again. He’s about to explode.

He doesn’t want to end up regretting it.

Throwing the bag strap over his shoulder, he moves toward the door. “Be back as soon as I can.” Slams the door behind him. Doesn’t give chance for a reaction. 

It’s better this way.

But when he gets to Carcer City, all he can think about is Trevor and the dull look he had on his face. He’s like a sparkler that’s lost its fizzle, and Mike knows he put that there and hates himself all the more for it. It’s a fucking wonder he can even concentrate.

Part of him thinks that because his focus has shifted just slightly, that’s why his mind is sharp and clear. It’s not just about the money now. He wants to get back home -- or at least to the closest substitution he has for one. 

When he busts open the door to their rathole in the wall room at Motel Hell, his heart races as if it wishes to leap from his chest cavity right onto the sticky shag carpet. Not only is he excited to show Trevor the bounty of what he’s scored, but he just wants to hold him in his arms.

What greets him is a sight that not only panics the hell out of him in a way he hasn’t been in years, but he’s pretty positive he would be calling a fucking coroner if--

His mind doesn’t give him time to dwell and instead snaps into concentration, pulling Trevor’s pale limp form into a sitting position from the floor, feeling around for any sign of life. He can just barely register a pulse and can hear him breathing even if it’s very sluggish. A baggy on the floor and the beer bottles catch his eyes, and it doesn’t take a fucking genius to figure out that T mixed something while drinking. 

Christ Almighty, he just wants to be done. This...this is too much. He just wanted to come back and maybe fuck around a little before going out together, and now he’s stuck caring for whatever the fuck this broken mess is.

Deep down, he is reminded of what this is. It’s the fucking person he keeps damaging, God help him. 

His beautiful broken toy. 

Yanking a trashcan from by the bedside and in front of Trevor’s trembling face, he knows what he has to do and busies himself with the task of trying to force his finger down T’s mouth to initiate his gag reflex -- which is a daunting task in itself which he has found out in so many pleasant-filled ways. It takes a bit of finagling, but he is rewarded with Trevor’s body violently shaking back to life and forcing puke from his mouth, and God help him again, he has fucking vomit on him, but he’s trying to keep from going nuts because he has to save T. 

Later, after all has calmed down, and he’s helped Trevor get a shower while he’s washed the smell from himself -- and this is where he isn’t sure whether he should be grateful that T barely eats or if he should be pissed that there weren’t _more_ chunks, as crazy as that sounds -- they settle into bed. He’s still so fucking scared by what’s just happened that he finds that he really doesn’t mind pulling Trevor closer and tighter to him or nuzzling his neck. These things remind him that the man next to him is still alive, isn’t completely broken. 

A small voice painfully croaks, “Sorry.”

Mike clenches him even tighter to him as if he can heal him somehow just through sheer will and force of contact. “What the fuck did you do, T? I don’t...don’t you know what that looked like, coming in here, seeing you on the goddamn floor like that??”

“You weren’t...wasn’t meant for you,” he mutters breathlessly. “I was just supposed to be gone when you got back, but you got home too early,” he finishes miserably. 

When he’s forced with the realization of what had been taking place, something nasty and as solid as a peach stone yet as hot as coal burns in his belly, just yearning to break forth from his throat but choke him on the way out. He is so fucking wrong, so fucking stupid. And he’s filled with regret for being blinded to the truth. 

This toy has always malfunctioned, but now he’s really fucked it up, and he’s not sure if it’s repairable. 

He heaves a sigh and places a kiss on his friend’s clammy forehead. The least he can do is try because he knows if the roles were reversed, Trevor would do it for him. He’s not even sure how he knows that, but T’s always carried a different set of values when it comes to him. 

The sun is high in the sky when he awakens, and he doesn’t even remember falling asleep which is unusual for him, but he is welcomed by the sight of Trevor’s fiery eyes glowing at him from above as he sits next to him, hovering happily above him. The afternoon sunshine catches him, creating a halo effect around him, and it doesn’t take long for it to affect Mike. 

Bright colorful things usually don’t.

Pulling his golden angel to him, he hesitates for a fraction of a second remembering last night’s vomit before plunging in with disregard, and he’s relieved to find out that T has at least downed a bunch of coffee to replace the acrid taste. 

“What the fuck has gotten into you?” T laughs when they break apart to catch their breath. “Not that I’m complaining, but this is...well.” He shifts his eyes toward the ceiling fleetingly, and Mike can see the beginnings of tears welling up in them. “I...I’ll be honest, man. I didn’t think you were coming back after I told you--”

Mike brings him in for another kiss, and he’s not sure exactly if it’s because he wants to shut him up, if it’s because of the rush that hearing the words fills him with, or if it’s the panic that sets him on edge because this is fucking _taboo_ shit.

Or maybe it’s exactly _because_ it’s taboo shit, too, and that idea drives him crazy with lust and also dread. 

“I want to play with you,” he groans into Trevor’s right ear hotly and watches in satisfaction as his friend’s face turns a dark shade of red. It’s nice to be the one to do this to him because usually, T has the upper hand in these situations. And his face only grows darker when he moves to grab Mike’s cock, and he hears, “I want every-fucking-thing.” Punctuated by a squeezing of the closest asscheek within reach. “This is all I wanted to do when I got back, you fucking idiot, not play your damn nurse.”

Trevor looks down again for a minute, but the cloud passes, and he stares back up at Mike. “You sure?”

He wants to bang his skull into the headboard, for fuck’s sake, for all the time this is fucking taking. Shit, he’s never been more sure of anything in his life, going to Hell or not. Fuck, he’s already halfway there anyway with the shit he does, so he may as well go to the goddamn finishing line. 

“Yes, I’m fuckin' sure!” he yells impatiently. “It’s either you or a fuckin' hooker, and I think we’d both rather it be you, _right?_ ” he hisses and grips the sheets in anticipation. 

That’s all the reassurance Trevor needs before giving Mike a taste of that beautiful hard-to-reach gag reflex while coating him thoroughly in spit. When he comes up for breath, he sheepishly mumbles, “Uh, we have lotion we can use to help, but this is gonna hurt like a bitch if you don’t do something back there.”

Mike looks at him in confusion until the thought goes through his head that he’s going to have to finger him, and it turns into a naughtier thought that this will be like actually winding up Trevor for the first time, so he squirts a bit of lotion at Trevor’s entrance and chuckles darkly. “I hope this helps.”

Before too long, Mike’s watching in sick captivation as Trevor has three fingers pumping in and out, and he’s squealing and moaning with excitement like a bitch in heat as the muscles and slick heat of his hole tries to suck them in deeper. He doesn’t even have to say anything about over the foreplay because again, they’re connected, and his heart does weird leaps when he acknowledges that they are about to be physically connected, too. 

T controls this part of everything, having actually had even the tiniest prior experience -- or so he claims -- and that’s just fine with Mike as he’s OK with sitting back and watching as T impales himself slowly--

Ah God, it’s the most incredible feeling that he can’t even begin to describe. This isn’t some girl behind the bleachers who just wants to use him as a stepladder to status. This isn’t some whore he’s paid to pretend to want him. This is someone who is doing this because they actually love him, want to be with him, and are even willing to take on pain -- be it from this act or from the act of being involved with him, period -- just to prove it. 

The way the sunlight shimmers off of Trevor, magnifying every drop of sweat, every tensed muscle, every quiver of his lips, every single motion he makes as he thrusts himself up and down, and the molten fire begging for release behind his eyes....

“You’re so fuckin' beautiful,” he breathes. 

Trevor is disoriented by that simple phrase but quickly shakes his head and demands _faster_ , _harder_ , _deeper_ , and _more_ , and Mike is oh so willing to oblige while watching himself pound relentlessly into that sweet ass. It’s the most perverse thing he’s ever witnessed yet also the hottest. It’s like trying to rub one out to Playboy before the parents get home. 

A passing thought flitters through like a butterfly on the wind, and he wonders what Trevor would look like if he says those three words back. 

He’s not sure where it even comes from, if it’s innocent or what, but he wants to see his precious toy glow brightly like a thousand suns, wants to feel him explode with the ferocity of a nuke, and wants to hear him wail with the potent decadence of a haunting banshee. 

His heart tells him there’s no turning back from this. His mind responds with silent indifference. 

“I love you, Trevor,” he moans silkily as he continues thrusting and watches with half-lidded eyes as T’s own amber ones roll slightly back as he begins the tell-tell shudder, and then he starts to scream for his wonderful Mikey while he cums.

Mike doesn’t even have time to ponder what kind of person this makes him as Trevor clutches him pitifully and sobs into his chest, “I love you so much, Mikey.” And it’s _this_ that makes him see stars behind his eyelids as he empties himself into his beloved friend. 

He nudges T’s shoulder gently, feeling calm and lazy in the afterglow. “Hey...you OK?”

Trevor bounces up and grins as if no tears had just taken place. “Never fucking better.”

And for a long time, his most precious toy shines on just from the joy three tiny words bring him. The high of this feeling is enough to keep the storm clouds away for them both.

But then one day....

_I want you and I need you_  
_All you are is brand new_  
_And I need you_  
_When you say that you are_  
_Forever, my star_  
_I'll never let go_  
_Never let you know_


End file.
